


The Midnight Rose

by HyFrLarry1224



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: BDSM, Betrayal, DarkHarry, DarkPlot, Drama, Family Secrets, IrishLiam, M/M, Mentions of past abuse, Minor Character Death, Multi, Murder, NotSoInoccentLouis, PhotographerLouis, Rape, Violence, druglord, larry - Freeform, mafia, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-04-27 16:18:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14429445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HyFrLarry1224/pseuds/HyFrLarry1224
Summary: (Before you read this god awful summary, know I suck at writing them. Read the prologue, or the first chapter, before you decide if it's shit or not. Thank youuuu. Xx)Louis Tomlinson's family was killed, and a crooked detective took him under his wing, taught him the ways of the world and how to survive when everybody wanted him dead. Going by a new name, Louis becomes a photographer, hunting out people who broke the law but he always stayed on the safe side... Until the day he didn't. John Stelle was who he first set out to expose, but one fuck up after another led him to a man who he quickly learned was not to be messed with...Harry Styles. The two start out on a bumpy road, both fucked up too even try and see the clear path, or how their lives line up perfectly with the others. When they try to keep their secrets hidden, more truth then they would like come to light and they're both faced with the decision; they can either run, never to look back or see what could have been, or stay and fight.And what a bloody fight it will be.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO! Those of you that have read my past stories, can clearly see I am slightly obsessed with MafiaLeaderHarry. I'm sorry, i'm so unoriginal. Haha. Anywho,I hope you enjoy this story! I am so excited about it and all I have planned. :)

He was hiding, creeping, watching; trying to find a way out without putting himself in danger. He didn’t know where he was. The chipping white paint in this tiny room held no familiarity, no comfort, and the fact that he couldn’t remember anything didn’t help matters either. 

The creaky floorboards protested beneath his weight, squeaking when he misplaced his foot. He cringed back, hiding his eyes behind his hand, fingers barely parted so he could peek through the dark, hoping nobody had heard him. When not a sound was heard, he took another cautious crawl forward, only to fly back when the door swung open and a black haired  man walked in, light brown roots betraying his secret and showing he didn’t truly have black hair,.

Blood stained Louis’ jeans, dirt clogging the wound on the side of his leg. “What do you want?” He asked in a whisper, voice soft and full of so much fear it made even him flinch back a little. 

“Oh, Darlin’, I want ye. Doncha know how important you are?” The strange man replied in a heavy irish accent, brown eyes catching the soft glow of light floating through the crack in the door and making the shadows of memories creep across the red blood vessels in his eyes.

Before Louis could react, or try to let his fried brain process anything other than the horrible pain radiating in the back of his skull and in his chest, where his lungs were fighting to expand the bruised skin so he could  **_breath_ ** _ , _ the man was grabbing him by his arm and jerking him up, thin lips twisting in a grin where they were pressed against pale knuckles, almost as if he was trying to hide his excitement. “Yer special, lil one. Doncha know that?” 

And despite the promise Louis could hear in his voice, he felt anything but special. He felt trapped, terrified, and he knew he was staring death in the face when the irish man pulled back and held his gaze. “Jus need to find out what to do with ye.”

**_“What to do with you.” Like he was some piece in a board game and not an actual human with a right to his own life… with a say._ **

“Who are you?” he asked instead, his still maturing body causing his voice to rise three notches higher. “What do you want with me?”

The obviously older man raised an eyebrow, black hair falling in his eyes and hiding his left eye. “Liam Payne,” he responded after a few heartbeats, whiskey scented breath ghosting over Louis’ face. The younger man could see the way he fought with himself, eyes seemingly parting to reveal the war brewing behind his unusually soft orbs. “It’s not wha I want, it’s wha you need. Protection,”

_ And with that final word, the entire world came crumbling down, memories shattering his entire existence until he was left with his families sobs tearing through his brain and seeping out his ears. They were gone. _

_ He had left them alone, left them to die. _

_ And now, wait--  _ “How did I escape?”

“Ye didn’t. Some boy helped ye out of the car. He hid ye until I showed up.”

“Why?”

“Because, Louis. Much more is at stake than just ye. Your family is dead, killed, and you would have been too if it wasn’t for…”  _ And he never seemed to have caught the name of the boy who saved him. _

_ He would never know until years later… but by then, it was too late. _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 1

The black camera strap, or lanyard, as his mum used to argue, dug into his neck, forcing him to readjust the irritating material every few seconds. His skin was scratched raw, a thin red line at the crook of his neck paired with four long, deep scratch marks that seemed to pulse along with his heartbeat.

_He'll be there, most likely hidden in the back of the bar at a secluded booth. He won't want to draw attention to himself, but you'll know he's important just by looking at him, and that's what he wants. But Louis, be careful. These men don't mess around, and if they catch wind your snooping around, those “friends” of his that sit at the table directly in front of him will put an end to your curiousness._

And his life, but Liam didn't need to clarify that. The way his voice dropped two notches lower and his eyebrows drew in over two dark brown eyes screaming with warnings was enough. He got the hint, or at least hoped he did. If not, he would be fucked. But he had one thing going for him; he was average. He knew how to blend in, how to contort his features and style, and sometimes even went as far as changing his personality, to fit the role of the person he was following. It has worked well enough so far… Yet he's never  _actually_ went after someone dangerous.

And he knows nothing about the man he's following, except he has some ties to a local drug dealer that was  _rather popular,_ and may or may not be the mafia leader.

His heart seemed to jump in his chest when the back door swung open, light flooding out and brightening up the dark alley he was hidden in. His place behind the cardboard box conveniently placed next to the back door was almost exposed, but he flattened himself back against the concrete wall and held his breath.

Through the door now held open with a peg, he could hear the life buzzing within the over the top bar. One man yelled something about another round, and he was followed with a chorus of agreements. People were laughing, and the music was a low thump out here, probably not much louder in there. It was loud enough to hear, and dance to, but low enough to hold a conversation with another person.

Blue eyes floated to the man with the white apron on who had abandoned his black bag of garbage next to the door in favor of leaning against the wall with a leg kicked out behind him and a cigarette dangling between his lips. The grey smoke rose in twisted tendrils, masking his face enough to add a certain mysteriousness to him.

Now, after his nineteen years of life, Louis finally understood the allure men who smoke had. It wasn't an attractive habit in the least, but something tugged in his belly as he watched the man take a deep drag, lips parting slightly so he could inhale the smoke. And for some reason, his task was put on hold because apparently watching an adam's apple bob against tan skin as the man swallowed was far more important than actually catching John Stelle.

_Fuck. Who would have thought he'd_ _ever_ _be so intrigued by a complete stranger._

Brushing hands down his thighs, Louis rose to a crouch, careful not to move his foot too much and make the gravel beneath his feet crunch. In hindsight, it probably would have been easier to get into the bar through the front, but he really didn't feel like standing in the mile long line only to be told, as soon as he reached the door, that his name  _wasn't_ on the  _list._ Or any list, for that matter. In terms of legal identification, he wasn't  _actually_ alive, or even a person. To the world, and his boss at Lincoln publishing, he was known as Steve Hail, a nineteen year old who had little to no schooling experience because his family was poor.

Which, in all honesty, wasn't entirely a lie. He did attend school, and was complete shit at everything, but his family had been poor. His mum worked hard, but never made enough to keep them from sinking below the waters current.

To himself, his friends, and his… family, he was known as Louis Tomlinson, 14 year old who died in a tragic car crash with his sister and mom. He hadn't died, obviously, but for some reason a certain detective, who happened to be named Liam Payne, smuggled the nearly dead fourteen year old into his worn down apartment and insisted nobody knew he was alive. He didn't know why, and still didn't, only get fed the partial truth;

His mum was a druggy, who owed one too many people too much money. So, to get a point across to all the other users, they killed her. They ran her down at a red light, crashed into her car and set it in fire with her two kids trapped in the back. They just didn't stay long enough to ensure the boy didn't climb out his shattered window, leaving behind his screaming family to die.

So now Louis needed to have his revenge in a way he was guaranteed not to rot in hell…. Or get his pretty little hands dirty.

“Fucking hell, Hector. Hope off your trolley and get back to work before  _he_ shows up,” a pudgy man with a receding hairline said, thick arms braced on the door.  _Don't look to your right… Don't move an inch._

Sweat dripped off this mans red face, and waves of onion and bo rolled off of him, poorly concealed with a deep, musky cologne.

Whoever  _he_ was, was apparently important because Hector threw his cigarette and seemed to forget to kick the door stopper back up in his quick escape back inside. “Thanks for making my job easier, Idiot,”

Sneaking into a million dollar bar was a lot easier than Louis would have thought, but then again, he’s never attempted to before. He’s only seen fools try to do it on television and movies, and they always seemed to draw more attention to themselves than what they honestly needed. He reminded himself to keep low and quiet, the layout of this establishment a blueprint etched into his poorly working brain.

He took a left at the kitchen, bowed his head at a drunk man who stumbled towards him, and spun into the men’s restroom where he splashed cold water on his face and reminded himself in a soft voice that this was  _it._ If he caught John doing something here,  _anything_  that was considered even a little illegal, then he could bag him, and with him would go the entire empire he had worked so hard at building.

John was, as many speculated including Louis and Liam himself, the leader of the british mafia, natural rival to the Irish mafia. Although no proof has ever been drawn up, and anybody who was ever taken into the police station either gets killed or is too terrified to rat anyone out, John still fits the role. He was a man in his early forties, had three wives, bodyguards, had many ties which meant he never got in trouble, and was always at every social event and crime scene. A thick cigar was always hanging from his lips too, the putrid stench of the thing wafting around any room he was in…  _And_  he was a high end business owner.

He had his own line of Hotels, Stelle inn, which seemed to have blossomed tremendously in the past few years. Louis has tried time and time again to catch  _something_  going on there, but the guests weren’t allowed in the basement of any of the hotels, and no matter which one he went to, he couldn’t sneak through the heavily guarded door. The strangest thing yet, though, is there isn’t one window on the main floor, or even in the basement. The rooms were surrounded by dark during the day, until someone mustered up enough brain cells and flipped on the light switch.

_Idiots._

The air in here was thick, but still had this delicious aroma, like Apple’s with a hint of cinnamon and something even sweeter. The hallways were long too, so much so that he found himself counting each of his steps until he reached the end of only one of the maze’s tunnels.  _120._

He got sidetracked easily enough, and was watching his feet when someone bumped into him, his jacket opening up enough that the lense of his camera nearly peaked out. Jerking his head up, he let out a long sigh of relief when he seen he had simply bumped into a wall. “Sorry,”  _Yet he still apologized to it? Okay._

Time to play the role. His head was now held high, fingers brushing through his untamed hair as he broke through a barricade of people and emerged on the dance floor. His shoes squeaked a little too loud for his comfort, but the music covered the noise, not that anybody in here was sober enough to pay attention to it.

His eyes subtly scoured the room, and since he was short he blended easily enough in the large room. The place was nice, if not a little too much. Lights dangled from the ceiling, the soft white glow creating a laid back atmosphere in here. The tiled floor had multicolored lights that flashed with every beat of the song, the stairs leading up to the tables matching the lights on the floor… Only they didn't light up until somebody stepped on them, a weird motion sensor somewhere in the dark tiles.

What stole his attention, though, was the piano placed in the middle of the dancefloor.  _Odd placing._ Nobody bothered it, and it was vacant, but it was clearly used. The cover was up, exposing the white keys, and the bench was pulled out, meaning someone has recently used it. It was made out of oak, and obviously cost more than the entire apartment building that he lived in did.

His fingers twitched, wanting to touch it even though he was never any good at it. He'd tried, had lesson after lesson when he was a young child and his mum could afford it, but he never had the patience to actually  _learn._ “You play?” A timid voice asked him, far too smooth to even draw his attention.  _He loathed soft voiced males… Even if he was one._

A short man was standing next to him, confidence radiating off of him despite the slight hunch of his shoulders, signaling he wasn't as confident as he let on. “No. I've always admired people who can, but I suppose it was never meant for me to play.” He said, arm moving to nudge the camera further beneath his armpit, movement subtle.

The man smiled at him, lips turning up slightly, and Louis couldn't help but smile back. He had kind eyes. “Oliver Green,” the short man said, extending his hand that had stubby fingers that wiggled.

“Steve Hail,” and despite his uncomfortableness, he shook Oliver’s hand, eyes moving through the room again. This time, he finally spotted the man he'd come here for.

There, in the back of the bar, closest to the hallway Louis had stumbled out of,  _idiot_ , was John. He was set in a booth with a black leather seat that wrapped around the entire table. Standing next to him (appearing as if he'd just arrived) was a youngish man, hair long and falling in chocolate waves of curls that brushed the tips of his shoulders. The stranger had light pink lips that were down turned in an attractive frown, and he had a youthful face, but his eyes were intense. Even from the other side of the room, Louis could feel his stare, could see the hatred lapping at his orbs and the secrets dancing along his pupils.  _Round and round they go._ But he wasn't even  _looking_ at Louis. He was looking behind him, at the piano a young woman was now approaching.

 _Shit_ _._ “I, uh, I have to go. Nice meeting you.”  _Did he sound scared? Frantic? Or like a straight up lunatic._

He felt bad for the woman, honestly did, but that didn't mean he tried to save her from jumping in the shark infested pool. Instead he tiptoed across the dancefloor, poking and shoving aside the bodies weighed down with too much alcohol that were now just swaying to stay moving.

The stairs startled him, not surprisingly, but he ignored his hammering heart and slipped into a booth that was right across the room from John. The attractive stranger in the purple suit had disappeared, as had the woman, but that just meant less people for Louis to focus on.

Propping his arm on the table, or more like shattering his elbow when he slipped and it cracked against the edge of the table, Louis tugged his camera out of his jacket and muttered absolute nonsense beneath his breath. “Fucking christ. Where's my bag,” and flashes of his grey shoulder bag propped against his little twin sized bed popped to mind, reminding him that he hadn’t grabbed it because he was in a rush for… Well, donuts. His favorite shop was closing, and if he hadn’t hurried he would have missed out on getting his daily dose of maple glazed donuts with some kind of nuts on it.  _Okay, so he wasn’t some culinary genius and didn’t know the difference between most nuts. Sue him._

So, he didn’t have what he’d originally planned on using as a cover for his camera. He honestly should have been thinking over other possibilities, considering he  _knew_ he hadn’t grabbed his bag the moment he left the donut shop. It was the reason he’d walked twelve blocks with the blocky camera hidden inside his light blue jacket that zipped up, squashed beneath his armpit where he was sure would forever remain the permanent imprint of the flash part that popped up.

But when you had donut smeared across your face and the delicious glaze gluing your fingers together, there wasn’t much else you could think about.

Blowing out an irritated breath, Louis shoved his hand into his jacket and let the lens of the camera peak out, but it was too obvious. He should have thought of bringing something smaller, something that didn’t scream  _‘Hey, I’m a fucking creep! Don’t believe me? Look at my camera! It likes you most, John!’_

_Fucking hell._

Glancing around, he noticed a spiral staircase that led to the second floor of the bar, green and purple lights flashing on the railing. Scoffing, he rose on two unsteady legs and slowly walked his way over to them, only to stop and contemplate how important all of this was when he realized the stairs were entirely made of glass. He peered down into the darkness that hid beneath the steps, knowing it would swallow him whole if he somehow managed to break the glass.

_This guy was a millionaire. Surely he'd invest in getting shatter proof glass?_

And that's the hope that carried him up the stairs, slowly, with a death grip on the railing. He knew he probably looked like some drunk moron clinging to the only thing he could find that provided support, but so be it. He quite enjoyed his life. Plus, he could always use the excuse that he was playing into the role, trying to get a feel of all the people around him.

The second level was completely different than the first. It was much more laid back, people sat in the booths and tables as they talked amongst each other. Most wore suits, and he figured this was where the tightwadded business men hung out. The flashing lights down stairs probably gave then headaches.

A glass wall, only about four feet high, was the railing up here, single tables placed so close to the edge that it would usually give him anxiety, if he didn't have such a clear view of John.

Stomach in knott's, he closed his eyes as he approached the table and didn't open them until he was seated, sure he wouldn't fall through the floor and crash onto the people below him.

“Can I get anything for you, sir?” A lovely young woman with ink black hair asked, the dark spirals of tattoos peeking out from beneath her white shirt.

“Uh, a glass of water will be fine. Thanks love.” He smiled at her, not missing the way her eyebrows rose in shock. Yes he was at a bar, no he didn't have to drink alcohol.

When she walked off, a cloud of sweet scented perfume trailing behind her, his nose automatically lifted to inhale the scent.  _Roses._ Turning in his seat so his legs were pressed against the glass, Louis nudged his chair back an inch so if the wall did give out, he wouldn’t fall.. Hooking his arms over it, he fiddled with his zipper and opened his jacket enough to allow the lens to peak out.

_Perfect._

He took a few test photos, thankful his flash had been off. His view allowed him to see John and his table perfectly, while he himself was hidden behind shadows cast by the many different lights.

_The waiting game has begun._

\----

The camera snapped a picture, the man in the purple suit in view as he passed John what appeared to be a  _large_  stack of money and a very suspicious paper bag. Although it wasn't much, it was still  _something._ And it was more than he's gotten in the past hour.

Three glasses, which used to be filled to the brim with water, set on Louis’ table, his bladder a horrible reminder that time was of the essence.  _Come on, you grubby handed criminal. Give me something._

Louis was starting to think he would get nothing else, and was preparing to pack up camp and go home when  _it_ finally happened. His finger fumbled for the button, and he somehow managed to flip on the flash but didn't realize it until it was too late. It was one of those cliche movie scenes, where everything slowed down and the person ultimately knew they fucked up but couldn't change anything.

The man in the purple suit reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic baggy full of white stuff before he set down and began to talk to John, hand movements visible as he got heated. He had just said something, loudly, but not so loud Louis could hear it, and handed the bag to John, which is when Louis finally moved from sleep mode and pressed the button to catch the photo.

The two men's hands were touching, and a terrified squeak squeezed it's way out of Louis’ throat when the flash went off. It wouldn't have been obvious, either, if the music hadn't stopped at that exact moment as a new song was chose, meaning the light covered dance floor stopped flashing.

The light reflected back off the glass, but he reacted too late. He tried shoving the camera down, but it was over, and when he looked up he seen the man in the purple suit was watching him.  _Fuck._ “There's my cue to leave.”

In his clumsy escape, he tipped over the chair he’d been sitting in, his leg catching one of the legs. He fell backwards and fully expected to meet his doom and fall to the floor, which would shatter, but it never happened. He fell back into two solid arms that closed around him and drug him back into a solid chest.

“You're coming with me,” a deep voice boomed, sending waves of fear crashing down over Louis.

_He'd been caught._


	3. Chapter 2

Growing up poor meant nobody ever really paid attention to you, unless it was to insult you and your entire family. They never seen the awkward boy lurking in the back at every field trip, or the shy kid hiding behind his fringe and peers, hoping to blend into the pale walls if just so he could disappear from reality for a while.

In a world where nobody seen you, you learned to see everything. Which is why he doesn't understand how he couldn't possibly have seen the outcome of tonight's events, or even the stupid flash clicking open.

His thoughts were jumbled up papers, trying to fit into a tiny trash bin that feels as if it's going to burst at any moment, and that pressure in the back of his skull somehow distracts him from his daily tasks. From the fact that he isn't normal, isn't the person most people would seek out and look to for friendships or relationships, or even just to get to know.

So when he was thrown into a room with that man in the purple suit, he didn't understand how that raspy voice curled around his name. His given one, not his alias. “Louis Tomlinson,” he murmured in a low voice, eyes hidden behind behind a mask so carefully held in place.

His heart immediately picked up speed, his denial turning to ash on his tongue when he realized it was no use. He was a dead man, caught in the grasp of a man with too dark eyes and lips that curled into an unnatural smile. “Should I even bother to ask how you know my name? Or can we get past all the questions?” Despite the way he held himself, head high and shoulders squared, his voice betrayed him. It wasn't that noticeable, the small tremor easily hidden behind the need to protect himself, blue eyes covered with a glossy layer to protect his secrets.

The man lifted tan fingers decorated with different rings to his lips, hiding the way they curled in amusement, before he gestured towards the vacant chair placed in the middle of the room. “Please, Mr. Tomlinson, have a seat.”

His voice was raspy, thick, and so sickeningly sweet, like maple syrup dripping off a stack of pancakes in the morning as the heavenly smell of coffee clogged your nose…. Only in this case, it was a deep woodsy scent, mint and cigarettes twining with it that created an alluring smell that had Louis leaning unconsciously closer until his hammering heart made him remember  _why_  he was here.

He planted his feet firmly on the ground, black camera digging into his side. The lense was still sticking out, lanyard digging into his flesh and creating yet another red mark. He was surprised they didn't take it, until those green eyes found it again and rolled in obvious distaste. “Sit, now. I'm being nice, and trying to make this easy on you. If you refuse again, I will forget my manners.”

An eyebrow cocked, revealing dark eyelashes that stood out against pale eyelids. “Manners? How is locking a guy in his room, against his will, being nice?” Now that he recalled it, though, the other man who had drug him in here had been much rougher, and stunk like death…  _If only he knew._

Taking a step back, Louis hooked a thumb over his shoulder towards the door, “But since you're being nice, I'm going to go,”  _he's going to kill me._ The man with green eyes far too old and mean to match his youthful face, let his right eyebrow quirk before a rubbed his finger across his bottom lip.

“You can go, once you answer a few questions. Sit.” and before Louis could even protest, or take another step back, his shoulder was being grabbed and he was spun, entire world blurring before he was shoved back into something hard that teetered back for a second before it slammed forward and came to settle on all four legs.

Gasping in a breath that had been knocked out of his lungs on impact, glossy eyes instantly shot up to find the man who was now hovering over him

“Who are you?”  _He really fucked up._

Liam wasn't here to protect him, and though Louis hated to admit that he was kind of a weak link, he still had hope that he could get himself out of this… Even when that hand came to grip the back of his chair, right behind his shoulder. He could feel that thumb, hear the way the long nail dug into the wood. “Harry Styles,” he said, “owner of this establishment.”

 _Oh, now it made sense._ “Listen, I wasn't taking pictures of you. I was taking pictures of your…” Louis cut off, waving a hand in front of him that narrowly missed hitting Harry. “ _Establishment._ I'm doing a paper about bars, more specifically the ones most have to wait months to get in to,”

Even as the lie fell from his lips, he knew how unbelievable it was. Nobody cared about the waitlist on bars. If it was a good bar, people knew it, and Harry’s just so happened to be one of the most popular in the entire UK.

Fishing a cigarette from his pocket, Harry finally pulled back and lit it, face disappearing for a second as smoke rose in twisted tendrils. “And how did  _you_  get in?”

“I snuck in through a backdoor,” he mumbled, not at all understanding why he was suddenly telling the truth. But those eyes, the way they were staring at him made him feel compelled to  _say_  more, to tell him anything he wanted. “You are the ‘ _he’.”_ He suddenly realized, flashes of a terrified man scurrying back in through the open door popping to mind.

Sinking down lower in his seat, Louis ignored the way his nose twitched when Harry blew smoke in his face, and instead let his eyes fall to his knees. “Tell me, Louis, why is a dead man so interested in my bar? And keep in mind, you lie to me one more time and I'm afraid I'll have to take a more…  _drastic_ measures.”

His eyes flickered up for a second, just to see the man’s face so he could call his bluff, but Harry wasn't in front of him anymore. His panic skyrocketed, different scenarios running through his head until he willed his beating heart to slow down so he could actually pay attention to the quiet thud of each footstep as they fell on the floor.  _He was walking circles around him._

“I go by Steve Hail. I work at Lincoln publishing, and I wasn't lying when I said I was doing a piece about your bar. I failed an assignment last week, so they put me on one simple enough for a toddler to handle. Don't believe me, call down there and see for yourself,” he sounded irritated and a little annoyed that this was even something they were discussing, which good. At least he knew Harry didn't short circuit his brain enough that he forgot how to  _lie_  and  _act_  good.

There in and instant, gone in a flash, like when a rattlesnake lunges to bite. You have no time to react or save yourself. You can just watch helplessly as the teeth sink into your body… Or, in Louis’ case, as the knuckles already slightly bruised, make contact with his cheek. The force alone had his head flying to the side, teeth clamping down on his tongue and making blood burst inside his mouth as this god awful throb began in his face and shot fireworks throughout his jaw.

“I told you not to lie,  _Louis,_ ”

The blood began to slip past the seam in his lip, trailing down his chin before it began to drip, one tiny drop after another, onto his shirt. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to focus past the pain, and looked up at Harry through narrow slits. “I wasn't  _lying_.”

His eyes widened when he realized Harry had his camera, long fingers cupping it almost protectively as he scrolled through the pictures. There was nothing important on that memory card, except for the pictures of Harry and John, of course. But other than that they were mostly test shots, to see if the lighting in here was good and if he was zoomed in far enough.

He opened his mouth to protest again, to lie through the blood and saliva that came pouring from his mouth, but then the camera was flipped towards him and he seen the perfect shot he got of Harry and John, doing what appeared to be a drug deal. “What is this then, huh? For not taking pictures of me, but rather my bar, there seems to be quite a  _few_ of me,” and picture after picture, Louis watched in horror as he seen each one had Harry in the frame, even if the camera wasn't focused on him. He didn't remember taking half of these, didn't even remember seeing him that much. Yet…

“I.. I,” all of his lies died on his tongue, and he didn't know how to come to his own defence when the truth was in front of him, when there was proof for everything he wanted to just dismiss.

Before he could really even try to, the door swung open and in walked two giant burly men, though neither matched Harry’s height. “Sir, everything matches. Steve Hail didn't exist until five years ago, and he has no family or records. This is Louis Tomlinson,” one of the men said.  _As if we haven't already established this._

Louis was, rather rudely, drug to his feet by Harry and the man's face grew uncomfortably close to his. “I have a few more questions, but prefer a more quiet place. You're coming with me,”

Louis didn't see any reason to protest, not when his jaw was swelling and forcing his aching mouth to stay shut. He simply bowed his head and allowed himself to get drug from the room, down the hallway, through the flashing lights, up another flight of stairs until they were in a dark room where the thumping music couldn't reach.

~~~

“I told you, I don't know anything,” it was a pitiful whimper, barely heard above Harry's ragged breathing.

Louis laid still on the floor, every small movement too painful to even risk. His ribs hurt, his nose was most likely broken, his fingers bruised and cut from the shoes stepping on them and crunching the bones. He wasn't sure how much more he could take.

“You know something you shouldn't. Why were you snooping around my bar?” Harry asked, repeating old questions and just leading them in a never ending circle. His hand was cradled to his side, a small tremor running through it that would be unnoticable if his rings didn't betray him by clanking together ever so slightly.

“I was.. I was here for John,” he finally admitted, head falling to rest on the cement floor. He should have known what his fate was when he first entered this room that was entirely made of cement, no windows in sight and only a lone light dangling from the ceiling. To his knowledge, the only escape was through the door on the opposite side of the room, so close yet so far away.

He was tired of protecting the truth when in reality, it originally had nothing to do with Harry or even his bar. “I've heard he was a drug dealer, but he's too careful. Nobody has ever caught him, and I was hoping to be the first.”

His eyes, red and swollen from tears, wanted to slam shut but he forced them open long enough for him to look up at Harry, to show he wasn't lying. He could only hope his eyes showed the truth behind his words.

The look, or words, must have gotten to Harry because rather than resorting to physical violence like he would have minutes ago, he crouched down in front of Louis and tilted his head to the side. “As much as I want to believe you, Louis, I can not bring myself to let you go. Too many people have already went against me, and you saw things I wish you wouldn't have.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you will not leave this place alive. No matter how little it benefits me, considering..” He broke off to mumble to himself for a second about something in the past before he looked back down at Louis, eyes clouded like he had allowed himself to get drug into his memories, too far gone to really know where he was until he blinked a few times. And just like that, the dazed look was gone, his eyes now clear and unreadable.

“I have come too far to allow some low life journalist to ruin it all and bring everything I've built, down, over a piddly ass bag of drugs.” He stood in one swift movement and waved a hand towards the door. Instantly, it swung open and in walked Hansel and Gretel. “I'm done with him. Take him through the back, and make sure nobody sees him.”

Body going numb as his adrenaline kicked in, Louis held himself back from screaming and crying, from begging for his life when in reality, he was living seconds Liam stole for him. “T-The piano. It's cliche having it where you do. It would look better closer to the staircase.”  _He didn't know why he was giving his killer decoration tips._

And like that, he was being drug down the hallway, across the glass floor where he was set on his feet and allowed to walk. Rather than taking the staircase down, he was shoved towards a darkened hallway in the back, the ogres behind him demanding to be known every few seconds by rough touches.

He went without protest, brain blank as he walked towards the death he didn't know he was ready for. These past few years, he hasn't been living. Sure, he's been alive, but what has he truly lived for? He lost his entire family in one day, and was expected to continue on like nothing happened the next. With a complete stranger, nonetheless.

He was tired of fighting, tired of breathing and waking up in the middle of nights with the screams lodged in his throat that he could never seem to let free. The scars on his body reminded him of that painful day, and he no longer felt like his life was truly worth continuing. Harry was right, he was nothing; a low life, a dead man. Nobody cared about him, and he knew that.

Until he didn't.

Without him, who would feed Potato, his runaway kitten he found nearly starved to death in the alleyway. Who would take Mrs. Cleo on her morning walks, or help Kendal with his homework every night? He himself may have nothing to live for, but so many depended on him for such stupid little things. His death may mean nothing to him, but to those people they would lose a major part of their daily routines.

And those thoughts were the reasons he finally lifted his head just as they were walking past an open entryway that led to a small smoking area. All the windows were open, and apparently screens weren't necessary because there weren't any.

The gears immediately began to turn in his head, but before he really had a chance to think it through, he took off running. His feet reacted before his brain, and by the time the latter caught up he was already jumping out of the window and falling three stories. “Oh shit!” He scream, the air instantly rushing into his lungs as his hair became disheveled, blown in each and every direction.

The garbage bags that broke his fall were thankfully comfy, packed full of rotting food that shot out and exploded all over the streets. He didn't give himself time to catch his breath, too afraid the men would jump right along with him and he wasn't looking to get squashed.

But they never came, and when he looked up he seen one lone figure standing in the window, looking both pissed off and amused as he waved Louis on his way and offered one of those confusing, yet dazzling, smiles. “Fucking creep,” he mumbled, voice trembling as he scrambled to his feet and took off running. His body hadn’t yet caught up to his injuries, or his mind to the fact of what had just happened. All he knew was that Harry was a psychopath, tied up in this mess he originally set out to unravel. And if he wasn’t careful, a lot more than his life would be taken.

He never looked back again, but he knew that Harry was still standing in that window, and those eyes were still watching him as he wiped the blood off his knuckles.

The only question was…

_Why did he let him go? And who was this man?_


End file.
